by Stuart Woods
Rick shrugged. “It’s the sort of thing that pops up on the news or in a television movie. Anybody could know it.”
“Did Arrington say anything to the detectives?”
“She was distraught, of course, but she seemed willing to talk; then she fainted. By this time, an ambulance had arrived, and the EMTs revived her. When she came to, she seemed disoriented—gave her name as Arrington Carter and didn’t recognize the maid or her surroundings. The maid called her doctor, and he arrived pretty quickly. He had the EMTs load her up and take her to a toney private hospital, the Judson Clinic, in Beverly Hills. After the crime scene team arrived, they went to the clinic to question Arrington but were told she’d been sedated and would be out for at least twenty-four hours.”
“Anything missing from the house?”
“Calder’s jewelry box, which, the butler said, had half a dozen watches and some diamond jewelry in it, and the gun. None of Arrington’s stuff had been taken, according to the maid.”
“So, Calder could have interrupted a burglary and gotten shot with his own gun for his trouble.”
“That’s one scenario,” Rick said.
“And I guess another is that Arrington shot Vance during a quarrel, hid the gun and the jewelry box, scrubbed her shooting hand and arm with Chanel No. 5 and jumped into a tub, just in time to be found by the maid.”
“That’s about it.”
“Any other scenarios?”
“Nope, just the two.”
“How’s the voting going?”
Rick shrugged. “I’d say the burglar is losing, at the moment.”
“Are you serious?”
“I think the detectives would have felt better about her, if she’d kept her head and told them a convincing story. They weren’t too keen on the hysterics and fainting.”
“They think she was acting?”
“They think it’s a good possibility. I’d find her a shrink, if I were you, and a lawyer, too. A good one.”
The two men rode along in silence for a few minutes. Shortly, Rick turned off the freeway and onto Sunset Boulevard. A couple of minutes later he turned left onto Stone Canyon, toward the Bel-Air Hotel.
“Is there anything else you want to ask me, Stone?” Rick said. “Next time we meet, we might not be able to talk to each other so freely.”
“I can’t think of anything else right now. Any advice?”
“Yeah, get Centurion Studios involved; they’re equipped to handle something like this, and I understand that Calder was a major stockholder, as well as their biggest star.”
“I’ll call Lou Regenstein tomorrow morning,” Stone replied.
Rick turned into the hotel parking lot and stopped at the front entrance. “Good luck with this, Stone,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call, but don’t be surprised if I clam up or can’t help. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks for all you’ve done, Rick, and thanks for meeting my flight, too.”
“Your luggage will be here soon.”
Stone shook his hand and got out of the car. He walked over the bridge to the front entrance of the hotel and into the lobby. “My name is Barrington,” he said to the young woman at the desk. “I believe I have a reservation.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Barrington,” she replied. “We’ve been expecting you.” She picked up a phone and dialed a number. “Mr. Barrington is here.”
A moment later a young man arrived at the desk. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington, and welcome back. My name is Robert Goodwood; I’m the duty manager. Did you have any luggage?”
“It’s being delivered from the airport,” Stone said.
“Then I’ll show you to your suite.”
The young man led the way outdoors and briskly up a walkway, asking about Stone’s flight and making chitchat. He turned down another walkway and arrived at a doorway hidden behind dense plantings, unlocked it and showed Stone in.
Stone was impressed with the size and beauty of the suite, but concerned about the cost.
As if anticipating him, Goodwood said, “Mr. Bianchi has insisted that your stay here is for his account.”
“Thank you,” Stone said.
“I’ll send your luggage along as soon as it arrives. Can I do anything else for you?”
“Please send me the New York and L.A. papers.”
“Of course.” Goodwood gave Stone the key and left.
Stone left the suite’s door open for the bellman, shucked off his coat, loosened his tie, sat down on a sofa, and picked up the phone.
“Yes, Mr. Barrington?” the operator said.
“Would you find the number of the Judson Clinic, which is in Beverly Hills, and ring it?” he asked.
“Of course; I’ll ring it now.”
Apparently the hotel knew of the hospital.
“The Judson Clinic,” a woman’s voice breathed into the phone.
“My name is Stone Barrington,” he said. “I’m a friend of Mrs. Arrington Calder. Can you connect me with her room, please?”
“I’m afraid we have no guest by that name or anything like it,” the woman said.
“In that case, please take my name—Stone Barrington—and tell Mrs. Calder that I’m at the Bel-Air Hotel, when she feels like calling.”
“Good night,” the woman said, and hung up.
The bellman arrived with the luggage and the papers. “Shall I unpack anything, Mr. Barrington?” he asked.
“You can hang up the suits in the large case,” Stone said. The man did as he was asked, Stone tipped him, and he left.
Stone picked up the papers. Vance had made the lower-right-hand corner of The New York Times front page and the upper-right-hand corner of the Los Angeles Times. The obituary in the L.A. paper took up a whole page. There was nothing in the news report he didn’t already know.
Stone ordered an omelet from room service and ate it slowly, trying to stay awake, hoping Arrington would call. At eleven o’clock, he gave up and went to bed.
Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
Seven
THE TELEPHONE WOKE STONE. HE CHECKED THE bedside clock: just after nine A.M. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Is this Stone Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. James Judson, of the Judson Clinic.”
“Good morning. How is Arrington?”
“She’s been asking for you. I’m sorry the woman who answered the telephone last night didn’t know that.”
“When can I see her?”
“She’s still sleeping at the moment, but why don’t you come over here around noon? If she isn’t awake by then, I’ll wake her, and the two of you can talk.”
“What is her condition?”
“Surprisingly good, but there are complications; we can talk about that when you arrive.” He gave Stone the address.
“I’ll see you at noon,” Stone said. He hung up, then pressed the button for the concierge and ordered a rental car for eleven-thirty, then he called room service and ordered a large breakfast. While he was waiting for it to arrive, he called Centurion Studios and asked for Lou Regenstein, its chairman.
“Good morning, executive offices,” a woman’s voice said.
“Lou Regenstein, please; this is Stone Barrington.”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“He’ll know.” Stone had met Regenstein the year before, when he was in Los Angeles on another matter involving Vance and Arrington.
A moment later, Regenstein was on the line. “Stone, I’m so glad to hear from you; you’ve heard what’s happened, I’m sure.”
“That’s why I’m here; I got in last evening.”
“I’ve been going nuts; the police won’t tell me where Arrington is, and the coroner won’t release Vance’s body to a funeral home without her permission.”
“Arrington is in a hospital; I’m going to see her at noon today.”
“Is she all right? Was she hurt in the
shooting?”
“She’s fine, from all accounts. I’ll be talking to her doctor, too.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Lou, who is the best criminal lawyer in L.A.?”
“Marc Blumberg, hands down; does Arrington need him?”
“Yes, if only to contain the situation.”
“He’s a personal friend of mine; I’ll call him right now. Where can he see Arrington?”
“I want to see her before she talks to another lawyer,” Stone said. “Tell Blumberg to expect a call from me at some point, and to deny that he’s representing Arrington, if the press should call in the meantime.”
“All right.” Regenstein gave him Blumberg’s number. “Remember, Stone, Centurion is at Arrington’s disposal—anything she needs; you, too. Look, I’ve had an idea: You’re going to need some place to get things done while you’re here. I’ll make Vance’s bungalow available to you for as long as you need it.”
“Thank you, Lou; it would be good to have some office facilities.”
“You remember Vance’s secretary, Betty Southard?”
Indeed he did; Stone and Betty had spent considerable time together during his last visit to town, much of it in bed. “Of course.”
“She’s there, holding down the fort; I’ll let her know you’re coming, and I’ll leave a pass for you at the main gate.”
“Thank you, Lou, I’ll be in touch later.” Stone hung up and called his own office, in New York.
“Stone Barrington’s office,” Joan Robertson said.
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Oh, Stone, I’m so glad you called. Have you heard about Vance Calder?”
“Yes, I’m in L.A. now, at the Bel-Air Hotel.”
“What’s going on?”
“I haven’t had time to find out, but I want you to go into our computer boilerplate, print out some documents and fax them to me soonest.”
“What do you want?”
Stone dictated a list of the documents, then hung up. Breakfast arrived and he turned on the TV news while he ate. The local channels were going nuts; the biggest star in Hollywood had been murdered, and they couldn’t find out anything. They were treading water as fast as they could, recycling what little information they had. They couldn’t find Arrington, the police wouldn’t issue anything but the most basic statement, Centurion had no comment, except to express deep loss and regret, and no friend of either Vance’s or Arrington’s would talk to the press, even off the record, not that any of them knew anything. That was good, he thought.
The phone rang. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“This is Hillary Carter, Arrington’s mother.”
“How are you, Mrs. Carter?”
“Terrible, of course, but I’m glad you’re here. Arrington badly needs someone to take charge of things.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Only for a few minutes, yesterday, and she was semiconscious. She was asking for you, though.”
“I’m seeing her at noon today.”
“Oh, good. The doctor doesn’t want her to see Peter, yet; I don’t know why.”
“I’ll see if I can find out.”
“I’m at Vance’s house, now, and the situation here is nearly out of hand. I’ve had to call the police to keep people from climbing over the fence.”
“I’ll see if I can arrange some private security.”
“That would be a very good idea, I think.”
“Is Peter all right?”
“Yes, but he wants his mother and father, and I’m having to stall him. What I’d like to do is to get him out of this zoo and take him home to Virginia with me. Arrington is quite happy for him to come with me.”
“That might be a good idea. Can I call you after I’ve seen Arrington?”
“Yes, please; I’ll give you Vance’s most secret number. The press hasn’t learned about it, yet.”
Stone wrote down the number.
“I’m so sorry we’ve never met face to face,” Mrs. Carter said. “Arrington has always spoken so well of you.”
“Mrs. Carter, do you have any objection to my taking over all of Arrington’s legal decisions and contacts with . . . everyone outside the family?”
“I’d be very grateful if you would, but of course, I’d like to be consulted about any medical treatment beyond what she’s getting now.”
“Of course. I’ll talk to you later today.” He said good-bye and hung up. There was a knock on the door, and an envelope was slid under it. Stone checked the contents and found the documents Joan had faxed to him.
He telephoned Lou Regenstein.
“Yes, Stone?”
“I’ve just spoken with Arrington’s mother, who is at Vance’s house with her grandson. She says the press there is out of hand, and she’s had to call the police. Can you arrange for some private security to take over that?”
“Of course; how many men do you want?”
“She says they’re coming over the fence, and my recollection is that they’ve got a large piece of property there.”
“Something like eight acres,” Regenstein said.
“I should think half a dozen men inside the fence, two in the house and a car patrolling the perimeter of the place, twenty-four hours a day, for the time being.”
“Consider it done; anything else?”
“Mrs. Carter wants to take Peter back to Virginia with her. Do you think you could arrange transportation?”
“The Centurion jet is at her disposal,” Regenstein said. “I’ll have a crew standing by in an hour.”
“I shouldn’t think she’d need it until later today. Is it at Burbank?”
“Yes, but the press would know that. I’ll have it moved to Santa Monica and hangared at the Supermarine terminal, until she’s ready to leave.”
“Thank you, Lou. I’ll call you later.”
There was nothing else to do, Stone reflected. Dino would be in the air, now, on his way back to New York. He checked his notebook, dialed the palazzo number in Venice, and asked for Eduardo.
“Stone?”
“Yes, Eduardo?”
“This is Carmen Bellini. Eduardo and Dolce are on their way back to New York. I’m spending a couple of more days here to rest, at his suggestion. Are you in Los Angeles?”
“Yes.” Stone told him most of what he knew so far. “If Eduardo contacts you before I reach him, please pass on that information.”
“Certainly. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Pray for Arrington,” Stone said.
He hung up, and it suddenly occurred to him that, since he had left Venice, he had not thought of Dolce once.
Eight
STONE COLLECTED HIS RENTAL CAR, A MERCEDES E430, and drove to the Judson Clinic, arriving at noon. The place was housed in what had been a residence, a very large one, on a quiet Beverly Hills street, set well back from the road. The reception desk was in the marble foyer, and Stone asked for Dr. Judson.
A moment later, a man appeared on the upstairs landing, waving him up. Stone climbed the floating staircase and was greeted by a distinguished-looking man in his sixties, wearing a well-cut suit. Stone thought he would make an impressive witness, if it came to that.
“Mr. Barrington? I’m Jim Judson.”
“Please, call me Stone.”
“Thanks. Come into my office, and let’s talk for a moment, before we see Arrington.”
Stone followed him into a large, sunny office and took a seat on a sofa, while Judson sat across from him in a comfortable chair.
“I want to tell you what I know, thus far, so that you’ll be prepared when you see Arrington,” he said.
“Please do.”
“Arrington was brought here by an ambulance on Saturday evening, at the request of her personal physician, Dr. Lansing Drake, a well-known Beverly Hills doctor. She was alternately hysterical, disoriented, and lethargic. Dr. Drake explained briefly what had
occurred at her residence, and he and I agreed that she should be sedated. I injected her with twenty milligrams of Valium, and she slept peacefully through the night.
“When she awoke on Sunday morning she seemed quite calm and normal, and she immediately asked that you be contacted. She said that you were on an island in the Caribbean called St. Mark’s, and that she was supposed to meet you there. My staff made repeated attempts to contact you there, without success. I reassured her that we would find you, and she seemed to accept that. She slept much of the morning, had a good lunch. When she questioned why she was here, I said that she had collapsed at home, and that I thought it a good idea for her to remain here for observation for a day or two. She accepted that.
“Late in the afternoon, her mother arrived, having flown in from Virginia. I was in the room when they met, and it became immediately apparent that Arrington was very disoriented. She seemed not to understand that she was married to Vance Calder, saying that she was supposed to interview him, but that she had changed her mind and had decided to meet you in St. Mark’s instead. When her mother mentioned Peter, her son, she became disturbed again, but after a few moments seemed to understand that she had a son and that Calder was the father. Her mother, quite wisely, turned the conversation to trivial things, and after a few minutes she left. Arrington immediately went to sleep again.”
“And what do you make of all this?” Stone asked.
“It seems clear that Arrington is undergoing periods of anterograde amnesia, brought on by the shock of her husband’s murder. Anterograde amnesia is a condition during which the great mass of old memories, prior to a certain point, remain intact, while the subject does not have access to more recent memories, or those memories are intermittent or scrambled—this, as opposed to retrograde amnesia, during which the subject may lose memory of all prior events, even her identity.”
“Forgive me, Jim—are you a psychologist?”
“A psychiatrist. This is, primarily, a psychiatric clinic, although we do some work with patients who have substance abuse problems.”
“Is Arrington likely to recover all her memory?”
“Yes, if the basis for her amnesia is emotional, not physical, and that seems the case. Her mother had spoken with her on the previous Sunday and said that at that time she seemed perfectly normal. If she should show signs of not recovering her memory, then I think a brain scan would be in order, to rule out a physical basis for her problem.”
